


Hands

by SilverRaven33



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel's POV, Destiel - Freeform, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Established Relationship, Hand Worship, Love reflection, M/M, POV First Person, Reflection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:55:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26783272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilverRaven33/pseuds/SilverRaven33
Summary: Castiel's reflections as he heals some minor wounds of his human's, on how much he loves Dean's hands and Dean Winchester in general. Quiet, warm, and loving.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 6
Kudos: 22





	Hands

I used to wonder how humans could regard the existence of their mere hands as highly as they do. They seem to use the presence of their simple opposable thumbs as part of the argument that they are somehow better than other animals. Even after all these centuries, as a whole they’ve yet to learn that there is no ‘better’, just varied abilities. 

I suppose I have little ground to stand on to judge, since the man that I have unabashedly aligned myself with could be viewed as one of the more arrogant among them. I know, I have screamed the words  _ he means well  _ at literally everyone in creation until I’m blue in the face, as they say. The man himself isn’t even sure he believes it anymore. But I can see him as he can’t see himself, and I see him and feel him on a deeper level than anyone else is able to. His edges have softened, I swear. 

Those hands that have caused so much bloodshed, that have taken so many lives, just today cradled a kitten that he was rescuing from a drain, and I have rarely felt more in love since I first realized what that emotion meant. No one can convince me that Dean Winchester is not worthy of redemption. 

And I understand, or begin to, as I clean the tiny cuts from the kitten’s claws on his hands, (cuts that I could see were causing him pain but he did not relent until the creature was safe in its little girl’s arms) how important the appendages are to humans. We angels have no true use for hands, after all, or any physical manifestation of corporeal bodies. I have become accustomed to using Jimmy’s body as my own because if I was going to stay here with Dean I had to. It’s a small sacrifice to be able to do this now; to touch him in a way that he can understand and respond to. 

I am deeply intrigued, obsessed almost, with every millimeter of Dean’s form. Surely some of that is due to the fact that the first contact I had with him was reassembling his molecules when I raised him from Perdition. But the manner in which I have come to be drawn to him is somehow on a much more intimate basis and I realize emotions are the impetus behind this. I catch a soft sigh escaping him now as I take care of him. He is endlessly grateful for my protection of him, and I must admit this pleases me. 

The kitten has raked his knuckles bloody, and I run my fingers gently over the fine wounds, effortlessly healing something so minor. I feel Dean’s relief immediately, his hand resting on my upturned one. I appreciate when our connection can be felt through our skin, especially at the simplest of times such as this. The symphony of sensations we both experience when we lie physically naked together and know each other in what humans comically refer to as the biblical sense is...beautiful and astounding and overwhelming. I understood immediately why people go to the lengths they do to feel those things, even when Dean told me what he feels with me is astronomically far from the norm. This, too, pleases me, though it’s not as if I’ll ever have a comparison for myself. He is the only one I can conceive of loving, wanting, needing, touching like this. I am just as happy feeling our connection as the skin of our mere hands slides together as I am at any of those other times, and I believe Dean feels the same. 

He closes his eyes as I use a fingertip to trace the dark blue veins on the back of his hand. I can feel the blood pumping steadily through the vessels before they disappear into the thicker skin of his lower arm. I then turn his strong hand over in both of mine, glancing up at his beautiful face to see his reaction to my seemingly sudden fascination. His eyelids flutter like a butterfly’s wings for a second, and then it’s as if he’s surrendering to whatever I wish to do. That is a moment and a permission that I am familiar with, and honor the significance of no less for how often it occurs between us. 

It amazes me how a being with such thin skin on its wrists, especially in the situations this man often is, manages to survive for long. Trailing my finger over the heel of his hand and into the soft center of his palm, Dean stretches his fingers out, opening to my exploration. The symbolism is not lost on me. Only the very center of his palm gives easily when I press on it, the skin partially protected there. Moving out to the edges, the callouses have formed into an armor over his years of gripping guns and blades. 

There is a twisted, faded white scar between his thumb and palm, where he’s told me he almost lost his thumb while training with a knife when he was ten years of age. I pause to appreciate that I did the right thing when raising him from Hell, that I recreated him in the exact image that he was already in before he descended. I did not allow the scars acquired in that torture chamber to remain on his body; had I done that he’d be nothing but gnarled tissue. But, though I was tempted to give him a fresh, blank, perfect surface, I am glad I let him keep his marks that came before his time in Hell. Especially since the more I’ve learned about human nature, and Dean in particular, I recognize that these fleshly mementos are somewhat held dear. Of course, going forward, he will not be able to add to his collection, as he calls it, with me around. I can’t bear to see him wounded and not heal him right away, so I’m sorry Dean, but there will be no new scars for you. He has enough old ones anyway.

His fingers are of course calloused as well, the better to hold the weapons of his trade, the lines where his fingers bend a deep contrast to the toughened skin on each digit. My own fingers are rough from years of fighting in this vessel, but it’s clear the touch of them is still pleasing to my human. I glance up to his face again, to ensure he is still enjoying my lingering. The slight tilt of his head and the slackness of his facial muscles tell me what I need to know. 

It is rewarding beyond measure that I am able to give him this sense of relaxation and peace. He goes through so much, and then strives to go through even more, in the name of saving the world. He almost never lets himself rest, unless I coax him into it. I am thankful my touch is soothing to him; obviously most angels are not capable of and would not want to be capable of taking care of a human in this way. 

I have learned many things in my time here on Earth, most due to this man leaning against this motel bathroom sink. I can smell the gun oil that has soaked into his nail beds as I lift his hand to my lips and press a kiss to a fingertip. This has Dean’s eyes opening, that enchanting forest green broken only by flecks of hazel, eyes I could never have imagined the depths of. I have seen many wonders in my time, naturally; oceans and mountains and galaxies, each stunning in their own way. But I’d never been arrested, stopped in my tracks, by beauty until Dean Winchester and his eyes and the way they take me in. 

Sensing his gaze heavy on me, I trace my lips down to his palm to lay a kiss there too, and then he twists his wrist as quick as anything in my hand, to capture me in his grip. I allow it, of course, though we both know I could easily overpower him. 

As fluent as I’ve become with the human English language, I’m still not sure I could find the words for what it does to my being when Dean becomes suddenly possessive, predatory, with me, though perhaps I should since he does so often enough. He is, of course, the only person who would dare do such a thing with an angel. As I am, of course, the only angel who would not only tolerate it but enjoy it. We have a unique bond, he and I. 

His fingers slip in between mine and squeeze and I am reminded, though I never forget, how strong he is. But also how tender and sweet and gentle, even in his subtle theft of control from me. He tugs my hand instead now to his lips, and grazes them against my knuckles, murmuring words that might be too low for another human to hear but I catch with no trouble. He wants me to take him to bed. 

Though I do not yet know if this will be a night for arousal and climaxes or simply holding each other and lazy kisses in the dark, I am all too happy to fulfill his request and lead him to the creaky bed, our hands entwined as one. His arms are around me immediately, that I know and cherish, and he is pawing off my coat as he always does, muttering something about a Columbo character, a reference I still don’t understand. 

I also couldn't care less as I watch his nimble fingers loosen my tie and unbutton my shirt. And then, oh blessing of blessings, his hands are on my skin, or I suppose it’s the skin of my vessel, but it’s all the same to him and as such has become the same to me. 

It might be true that he makes me feel things no angel should feel, as his magical fingers trace patterns on my flesh, as if he can’t get enough of my body. The near worshipful words he is breathing into my ear tell me so in no uncertain terms, and I am never so glad to have turned my back on Heaven. Blasphemy, I know. I am beyond caring. I have lived eons and would have lived many more without ever experiencing affection and love if not for Dean Winchester. 

I may be a celestial being with boundless power, a cold soldier capable of things I’ve now come to regret, but he has shown me that I am so much more. I am uncertain how much longer I will be allowed to retain my wings and my grace but in the wake of this man’s touch, his fingers reaching for me, his hands cradling all that I am, I know that this, right here with him, is where I belong. 


End file.
